


Wayward Spirit

by markiboss (purplelly)



Category: Achievement Hunter, Wilford Warfstache - Fandom, jacksepticeye, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Blood and Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 15:26:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14083905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplelly/pseuds/markiboss
Summary: To lose everything is to lose yourself.-Mark is lost in this new world, without a home, without friends. All he has is his dog beside him and his will to keep searching.





	Wayward Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> Wow I wrote something! And I’m pretty proud of it, too. This was fun to work on while taking a break from my original stories. Yes, there’s a crossover with Mark and Achievement Hunter (totally not an excuse to put Ryan and Alfredo’s raid argument in there nope) but its brief and I think you all will like it anyway without really knowing who achievement hunter is. (No shipping in this one btw)
> 
> Edit: Made this story separate to the YT Horror Series. It felt better that way aha.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> [Buy me a coffee?](https://ko-fi.com/antiquefly)

The ground was cool from the lack of sun, which was just above the horizon, and the sky steadily rose from dark to light. The bare heath in which he laid on had partially soft dirt from the earlier week’s rain, but the grass was wind-dried and whispered as the calm breeze nestled them together. A red-feathered bird flew up ahead, without company. Perhaps the storm had separated him from his flock.

Mark lay without rest on the natural bedding, his eyes staring up at the grey sky. Clouds blocked most of the sun’s harmful rays, but even with the sun setting, and having been here for close to an hour, his eyes had begun to hurt.

He wondered where he was, and how long it had been since he’d seen a map. The weather got steadily colder since he left California, all those years ago. The outbreak had rendered the densely populated state uninhabitable.

Mark had left with another group of people, packing his bag and his dog, and they all headed out of state, packed in crowded SUVs and vans and trucks.

They had traveled a couple states, then settled camp somewhere in Montana. Surprisingly, border control was still active at that time, and it was strictly prohibited to enter another country. So heading north was out of the question.

They traveled along the border after that, and when coming across the Finger Lakes, the group had started to part ways. Food was growing scarce, as they had been on the road for the better part of a year now, and while some border control points are still enforced, others are completely abandoned.

It was surprising how fast the outbreak came about; first it was a misdiagnosed Huntington’s Disease, which disproved itself quickly once the pathogen became airborne. Hospitals were hit the worse, and now, ironically, were considered the most dangerous areas on top of populated cities. Mark heard someone discussing that it was the hospital’s thorough ventilation system which caused the outbreak to spread faster. Another conversation told of a patient being transformed mid-surgery. With his inside cut open - it was an open heart surgery on a 60-something year old - the patient sat up and puked directly on the doctor. It was not long after the doctor was transformed himself, the entire hospital following shortly after.

Once the resources the small traveling group had started to dwindle, people began taking everything they had and going another way, in hopes of doing better by themselves. Mark had always agreed with the notion that the more the merrier, but as their group went from 60 people to 30, then 15, then 10, Mark started to worry.

The turning point was the hoard.

Mark, at this point, had never seen up close what it was that this pathogen turned humans into. The group had avoided all the areas that were rumored to be dangerous, and they spent most nights camping outside, with a night guard at the ready, but at the time, despite all these people getting sick, they never came across one of them. Mark hoped it would stay that way, and that the problem would be solved before they had to face the carnage.

The hoard arrive at 2am. Mark was on duty that night; actually, he was on guard duty from 6pm to midnight. Another guy, Jack, took over for him. A foreign guy that had come to America to visit friends, but became stuck here when the airports shut down.

They talked for a good hour that night, and Mark shared his concerns for his family in Ohio. They had lost contact as, with everything else, batteries died, electricity shut down, and phone towers went down.

Jack had lamented about his sisters and brothers and parents back in Ireland. He planned to get to the coast and hopefully find a boat, in which he would take across seas and find his way back home. The plan was weak - many, many things could go wrong, and Mark saw that Jack knew that - but Jack had a determined glint in his eye, and an unwavering spirit. He was passionate, and Mark had decided that if anyone, Jack could figure it out.

Mark went back to his own vehicle, where the back seats had been transformed into a cramped RV. A cooler packed with non perishables, a case of bottled water, blankets, a half-filled canister of gas, and his weapon of choice, a steel pipe that he had discovered somewhere back in Montana.

Chica was asleep on her pile of blankets, opening one eye as he got settled, and went back to sleep. He scratched her head until her breathing evened out, and then he laid down to rest himself.

A gunshot had gone off what felt like seconds later. Mark sat up, nearly smacking his head off the roof of his car, before scrambling to exit. He hushed Chica, who woke at the blast and whined nervously. As a last-second thought, he grabbed the pipe.

It was dark, but flashlights had started to go off as the gunshot woke everyone else, too. Mark rushed to the campfire.

There was a body at the fire, its head completely torn to shreds by the shotgun. Jack stood above it, his face white, hands shaking while he gripped the weapon.

‘What the fuck’ had started to come from Mark’s lips when Jack abruptly aimed the shotgun at him; Mark ducked to his knees without a second thought, and a piercing shot went off that made his ears ring.

A hand gripped him and made him stand up. Jack was saying something, but Mark couldn’t quite hear. He pointed, and Mark saw a twitching body laying where he had been standing.

Closer to the light of the fire, Mark saw that they weren’t completely human. Their skin had gone purple and dark, and large blisters swelled on their backs and their arms. Some of those blisters had calcified and became something reminiscent of armor; others had popped and oozed a dark red gel, like poisoned blood.

The ringing in his ears began to subside as more people joined their circle with their weapons drawn. Some had guns, some had weapons like Mark. A baseball bat, a glass bottle. Truth be told, this group of people had not expected to face combat, and overall had little knowledge of what exactly would take down their adversary.

Despite the brave souls who joined them in their combat, Mark heard the rumble of multiple engines; and then their group was cut in half as the rest abandoned them.

Jack swore, and multiple figures rose out of the darkness. The combined light of the fire and the flashlights only went so far.

Their eyes were red. Like someone bore a hole in their pupils and allowed blood to fill the gap, then let it overflow to stain the rest of the eye. Drool was a constant river from these monsters, and Mark noticed an odd shape to their jaws, like their chins jutted outwards abnormally.

The only noises to escape these creatures was the nasally pants that came through their noses and misshapen lips. Moans began to speak unintelligible words as the few closest to them spotted the group; their arms raised and pointed.

Jack shot a few off, their heads exploding in a passion of blood and matter and bone. It made Mark sick, and the group involuntary backed away at the sight. Jack, white but shaken, quickly got used to this, and encouraged the others to fight.

A woman had a pistol, and Mark believed her name was Lauren, but they’ve never had a proper conversation. She was the only other one with a gun, and she began to take shots. Her attacks took two shots instead of one, but she had good enough aim.

Mark stepped forward as one of the creatures drew close. He raised his pipe, staring down into the creature’s eyes, and hesitated a second; worried, suddenly wondering, if these people were still  _alive_.

The creature had gotten close to him, too close, and with purple, boney hands, it gripped his shirt held his wrist.

Its mouth opened; a stench unlike anything Mark had ever smelled wafted out of her. It stank of rotted death; of old blood; of too-sweet poison placed on top of a sour dessert. He held his breath, and suddenly regaining his lost common sense, kneed the figure.

It did not feel pain, that much was certain. Its grip remained strong, but Mark threw off its aim. The creature looked downwards and a dark, poisonous magenta vomit exuded itself from its mouth, spilling onto the grass and nearly staining Mark’s feet.

Mark grappled with the creature and hoped it would not look up. It did; its eyes locked onto his, and still leaking vomit, began to face him.

Another ringing shot went off, and the once-human creature was knocked back, its head gone from its shoulders. Jack stood there, afraid, but casting Mark an irate stare.

He scolded him, telling him to get his act together before they’re all dead. The hoard was still coming, like a never ending wave, and they needed all the manpower they could get.

Mark nodded once, but something else registered in his ears; a distant barking.

He cursed, fear and worry for the one thing left in his life that mattered being in danger overtaking any other thought on his mind. He bolted past Jack and the group and skipped between creature’s extending arms as he got back to his car.

Chica was barking at the window at one of the creatures peeking through. It banged on the window, rocking the car.

Mark, without hesitation this time, raised his pipe and landed it squarely on the creature’s blistered bald head. It went down with a grunt, oddly passive at being attacked, and simply gazed up, empty-eyed and inhuman. Mark raised the pipe again and finished the creature off.

Blood had splattered on his face, and his hastily wiped it off. Chica was at the window now, wagging her tail at the sight of him, and it made him smile.

“ _MARK!”_

Mark looked up, and saw Jack aiming. Before he had time to duck, the shot was blasted.

Mark felt it go directly by his ear, narrowly missing him, but his ear exploding with pain at the mere blast. He collapsed into his vehicle, crouching, cradling his ear that made tears spring in his eyes, made his hands shake and involuntary noises escape his throat. He felt warm blood pool over his fingers, but his ear heard nothing except an impenetrable ringing.

His other ear was uninjured, if only mildly damaged from the blast, and picked up on sudden screaming. Mark stood up, flinching.

One of the creatures held Jack by the throat. The magenta puke stained Jack, and leaked from his mouth and down the front of his shirt. The creature gripped his jaw tightly and left red scratches down his face.

His shotgun was on the ground.

Mark dived for it. The sound had attracted the creatures to their location, and if Mark didn’t act fast, he would be getting infected himself. He aimed the gun, taking careful aim for the creature and not Jack.

He took one shot; the creature fell back, dead. Jack cried out, experiencing what Mark had dealt with moments ago. Then he looked down at himself, saw the puke he was covered in, and knew what it meant.

Jack looked pleadingly up at Mark. As Mark watched, he saw Jack’s eyes were bloodshot - then one of the vessels popped, spreading a marble-like red design across the whites of his eyes. Jack didn’t appear to feel a thing.

Jack whispered a helpless ‘please’. The creatures were closing in.

Mark took a breath. The rest of their group had seemingly left. No other shots rang out and no other lights flashed around the dark. He  _hoped_ they left.

Taking a breath, Mark gave the gun to Jack. Jack took it, gripped it tight, and nodded. He mouthed ‘Go’.

Mark thanked him. He hastily climbed in his vehicle, Chica greeting him excitedly. He started the car and sped away.

He passed creature after creature; and saw that this hoard was almost never ending. They weren’t fast enough to attack his vehicle as he sped through them all. But the more he drove, he saw how dense they got.

Mark was never a strictly religious person, and may have attended church only a few times in his life. But now, he uttered a silent prayer for Jack, and hoped that he got to see his family again, one way or another.

Then he sped into the horizon, as he passed the last stragglers of the hoard, Chica at his side.

#

The ringing in his right ear did not go away.

He accepted that he was partially deaf on one side now, and Mark had to get used to feeling so unbalanced. After they had passed the hoard, the aching in his ear combined with the imbalance he felt, caused him to stop the vehicle on some empty dirt road, just so he could lean in the ditch and puke his guts up. He felt motion-sick and had to sip slowly at a water bottle until he could drive again.

Being alone was a new feeling to him, too. Chica was always by his side when the group was together, but she often had other dogs to play with while Mark chatted with the other dog owners. It like a friendly community he had become a part of in the last 8 months.

Jack sprang to mind, and the horrible knotted feeling twisted his stomach and nearly made him throw up again.

He left the gun with Jack, but even if Jack was able to defend himself, he wouldn’t have enough in that gun to shoot down the entire hoard. It had went on for miles, as Mark saw when he drove away.

He had hoped Jack was able to get to his own vehicle and escape, but even if he did, he was most likely infected.

“It was my fault,” Mark found himself saying.

And that was true. If Mark hadn’t left so abruptly then Jack wouldn’t have run after him. He wouldn’t have caused the death of his friend.

His mouth had gone dry. He took a sip from the water bottle.

He couldn’t do anything about it now.  _What’s done is done_ , Mark thought.

Wasn’t that a quote from a play?  _Macbeth_ , he believed.

Then he remembered Lady Macbeth, eaten from the inside by her guilt, sleepwalking in the night and endlessly scrubbing at her hands when she believed she can’t wash off the blood of her victims.

_‘Out, damned spot! Out!’_

Mark scratched at his palms and kept driving.

 

The car began to run out of gas on the sixth day after the hoard’s attack.

Mark had used whatever gas he had left, but eventually it was due to run out.

When the marker had dipped just below the last line on the gas dial, Mark could’ve cried when he came across a gas station.

And not just a gas station, a  _populated_ gas station.

He hadn’t seen another human being all week. He saw a creature or two, shambling by themselves, or dead by the side of the road, but this gas station had real, sane people in it.

Cars were parked at every entryway to the station, creating a makeshift barricade that would block travellers or those creatures. The gas pumps were intact, from what Mark could see, and this group of people had gotten their hands on a firetruck, the type with an extended ladder. This ladder was extended to the roof that covered the pumps, and Mark could see a guard perched up there, on a foldable chair with a table and what looked like a radio. A gun was also clearly seen laid on the guard’s lap.

As Mark approached, the guard stood up, lifted something to his mouth, and a high whistle pierced the air.

Mark drove around the barricade until he found a makeshift gate - something built out of multiple doors, planks of wood, and barbed wire. The middle door had a peephole, and must have been taken from a hotel somewhere.

He exited his vehicle and knocked a couple times on the door. Sounds from the other side of the wall made him aware someone was looking at him from the other side.

A gruff, suspicious, tired voice came from the other side.

“What brings ya here?”

Mark swallowed, nervous. It hadn’t occurred to him until this moment that these people could be dangerous.

“Ah--I’m Mark. I-I’m running low on gas,” Mark said. “I was just hoping for some help.”

“And what made you think we’d help you?”

Mark struggled for something to say, but another voice interrupted him.

“Geoff, don’t be an ass.”

“What? We can’t just help anybody who comes through.”

Mark had left the passenger window down, and Chica poked her head out through the window. Immediately a cry of delight went through the air.

“Geoff! Geoff! He has a dog! We  _have_ to let the doggie in.” British?

“Ugh, fine.”

The shifting of multiple locks sounded, and the door swung outwards, revealing a group of people who looked him up and down.

The man who he assumed was ‘Geoff’ stood first, and looked just as he sounded. A thin mess of black hair with a bushy beard on his chin. He had bags under his tired eyes, and tattoos decorated both of his arms. He had a pistol, but it was strapped securely to his waist.

Other members of the group had followed an equally odd appearance; a tall, wide man with a ginger beard and glasses - one of the lenses was cracked - greeted him kindly. He introduced himself as Jack - Mark thought of his lost friend and tried not to flinch. Jack caught it and quirked a brow, but didn’t say anything.

Other members of this crowd followed, after the two with which Mark assumed took leadership role. A man who matched in his own height introduced himself as Jeremy. Michael was a curly-headed, brash man who cast him a distrustful eye. Ryan was a tall, blonde man who looked just as tired as Geoff and said very few words. And Gavin, well, was a hyper British man who excitedly looked past him to Chica looking out the window.

He let out a squeal that made Mark wonder if he was human.

“What’s the dog’s name?” Gavin asked. “Ooo, it’s been so long since I’ve seen a dog!”

Mark laughed. “Her name’s Chica.” He opened the side door and Chica hopped out, equally excited at seeing new people.

Another person approached, and Mark recognized him as the one who was guarding earlier. He had the elaborate gun that Mark saw earlier.

“‘Bout time you join us, Alfredo,” Michael jabbed.

“Do you know how long it takes to climb down that thing?” The man, Alfredo, claimed. He took notice of Mark. “Hey stranger.”

“Mark,” Mark corrected.

Chica had found Gavin, and Gavin cooed at her as she excitedly sniffed his face. Michael shook his head from above them.

“Gas, you said?” Geoff asked. Mark nodded. “Well, believe it or not, we don’t have any here. The pumps were empty by the time we got here and the station was pillaged.”

Mark deflated. “Oh.”

Jack cleared his throat, and Geoff rolled his eyes. “But, we were planning on a raid to a nearby city. If you help us out, you can have a share of the goods.”

Mark smiled. “Of course, yeah, I can do that. I….I really need it. Thank you.”

Geoff manifested something like a grin, a slight lift of his lips, and Mark could see it felt an odd placement, and it was gone in a brief moment. But Jack noticed it, too, and gave Mark a grateful look.

The next day was spent like this: Mark was introduced to the inner workings of this gas station-turned-base. The attached store had been slightly remodeled into a living space. The glass doors and windows had been boarded up, and the counter had been turned into dining table. The ‘employee only’ section of the building was transformed into a sleeping area, with multiple sleeping bags and cushions.

Mark was allowed to drive his vehicle inside the protective walls they built, and he opened the back so Chica could hop freely in and out.

There was a fire pit, away from the pumps, that had chairs and tables set around it. Coolers were perched under these tables, and a radio was on top.

The day had been drawing to a close before Mark showed up, and the sky went from dim to dark as they settled around the fire. Canned food was passed around, and despite his protests, Jack handed him a portion of their food. It was clear that a few of the other members disapproved of this; Geoff shook his head, and Michael glanced between them with distrust. The others, however, didn’t appear to care. Gavin was still too preoccupied with Chica, and Alfredo and Ryan were wrapped up in a debate about some video game that no longer exists. Jeremy handed him a bottled water, another act that had more mixed feelings among the group.

That night, there was a nightly guard as well, something Mark was not apart of. For the paranoid to have peace of mind, Mark slept in his car that night over a watchful eye.

The raid was that morning. Jeremy, surprisingly strong for his size, shook his car until both Mark and Chica woke up.

The group planned to only send half of them out. Alfredo, Ryan, Geoff, and Jack had already decided they were going, and Mark was to accompany them now. Chica was an allowed guest as well, after they decided she would be helpful in spotting any creatures.

They took one shared vehicle, one that was inside the circle and filled with the only gas they had. It fit all of them, and Chica, as long as she was on Mark’s lap.

As they drove out of the circle, Mark took notice of the firetruck, the oddest part about their vehicle brigade.

“What’s the story behind the firetruck?” Mark asked.

Geoff snorted, eyeing Jack beside him as he drove. Jack turned from the passenger seat to look at Mark.

“Ok, well, that’s how we met Michael and Gavin,” Jack began. “Me and Geoff were holed up in a hotel - most of it was quarantined off - and we were trying to find a way out of the building. We were stuck on one of the upper floors, and those zombies - that’s what we’ve been calling them - had us trapped. We were trying to come up with a plan when suddenly a guy was standing outside our window.

“Now, remember, we’re like on floor 9. No human could be that tall. But Geoff and I were staring at this guy that stared back at us like ‘what the fuck?’.

“We opened the window and saw he was not floating, just standing on a ladder. That’s when we met Gavin. We found out he and Michael had gotten their hands on a firetruck. Michael had been operating it at the time. And this man that squawked like a bird and seemed to trip over his own feet, was chosen to be the one to raid the hotel.

Turns out, Gavin is a pretty good at stealth. Clumsy when he’s not focusing on it, but he can get around places he wants to like fucking Snake.

And then it became a our tool to get to high places. Had it ever since.”

“Wow,” Mark said, laughing. Chica looked up at him until Mark began to scratch her head.

“What’s the story behind the dog?” Ryan asked.

“Oh,” Mark said, watching as Chica rested her chin on his arm. “I’ve had her for around….two years before this all started.”

“And you’ve been with her since this all started?” Ryan asked. “How have you protected her all this time?”

“Actually,” Mark said, feeling sheepish. “I was part of a group for a while, and we didn’t even see those creatures until...about a week ago.”

“Really?” Ryan asked. “Did they die?”

“Ryan,” Jack warned, noticing Mark flinch.

“I don’t really know,” Mark said. “We got suddenly attacked by a hoard and….” Mark looked out the window. “We got separated.”

Jack raised a brow, seemingly more keen on picking up body language than the others. Ryan was busy reloading the glock he had attached to him, Alfredo was going over the map in between Mark and Ryan, and Geoff focused on driving.

“Ok, so,” Alfredo said, pointing to an area on the map. “We start here, the fence has a loose board that we can slip through. That leads out onto an alley that goes into two directions. We can split up. One way leads to the gas station, and I have reason to suspect there are at least canisters we can take. It’s all locked up but I have bolt cutters in the trunk. We could probably find medical supplies and other resources as well. The other way leads to the gun shop, and when I last saw it it was still locked up.”

“Are there those, uh, zombies around?” Mark asked,

Alfredo gave him a odd look. “Yeah. They’re everywhere.”

Mark sheepishly nodded. He felt like he had less experience than anyone else in the car. He looked out the window and listened as Alfredo continued his plan.

 

It was decided that Mark (and Chica) would team up with Ryan and Alfredo, and they will head to the gas station. Geoff and Jack will raid the gun shop.

They parked the car a distance away from the city’s edge. It about approximately a 15 minute walk, according to Alfredo.

Chica pranced along Mark’s side, and his heart suddenly hurt. She was happy to be on a walk, unsuspecting of the dangers that could be ahead. Mark scratched her head and silently promised to protect her.

Jack trailed back from beside Geoff to greet Mark. Mark smiled in appreciation.

“Hey, uh,” Jack began. “I don’t want to pry, but...you’re last group didn’t seem to end well.” Mark stammered, but Jack continued. “If you want to, I can convince Geoff to let you stay with us. I always believe we’re safer in numbers.”

Mark chuckled, startled at the offer. He looked down at Chica, then knew how badly he would end up on his own. He nodded.

“I think,” Mark said. “That would be real nice of you.”

Chica nudged her nose against Jack’s hand. Jack chuckled, scratching behind her ears.

“She likes you!” Mark said.

“She’s a very friendly dog,” Jack said. “I had a couple labs once.” Despite what the statement indicated, he gleefully paid much attention to Chica, almost reminiscing. He did not strike Mark as the type to miss the past, but to focus on bettering the future. No ghosts haunted this man, and Mark found himself appreciating Jack.

They approached the fence with low, idle chatter. The bare terrain of ongoing meadows and wheatfields started to turn into empty, abandoned farmhouses. Their course turned into a beaten-down path on the side of a dirt road. Another while of walking, they met the fence, outskirting a city.

Alfredo moved a board from the fence, and it swung open, hinged on a single rusty nail. He crouched down and crawled through. A moment passed, and he beckoned the others to follow.

The alleyway was old and decrepit. It was clearly in bad shape since before the outbreak, and now it had no hope of recovery. Wildlife had started to creep in; vines crawled up brick walls, bird nests were prevalent along the now-useless power lines, and Chica growled as a family of racoons scurried across their path.

“Ok,” Alfredo said. “This is where we split ways. Geoff, Jack, you go that way--” He pointed to his left. “--And Ryan, Mark and I will go this way.” He pointed to his right.

Both ways were equally dirty and rundown as the alley they were currently standing in. But both ways were also void of creatures, and seemed to be distant from the populated areas of the city.

The group exchanged good lucks, and then they went on their way. Mark made sure Chica was close. His gut had been doing flips during the last ten minutes of their walk. Now it was much worse; he felt as if he was being watched.

Jeremy had armed him with a simple glock when they were back at the station. It was Jeremy’s weapon, one of the few guns they had, but he decided with the raid they planned, they’d have a bigger supply of weapons by the end of it.

During their walk to the gas station, a distant moaning was heard through the air. It made Mark stop momentarily; Chica’s ears perked up.

“It’s fine,” Alfredo whispered. “Just stay quiet.”

They came upon a conjoining alley, which lead out onto the open street. In the street moved a group of those creatures.

Most were what Mark had seen before; purpled skin, bulging blisters, blood red eyes. But one stood out as new to Mark.

It stood taller than the rest, and its back was a mountain of calcified blisters. They were swollen and a purple-red, but Mark knew they were as hard as rocks. The blisters served as armor to the creature, and he knew that if that thing saw them and went after them, then they would not be able to kill it in time.

Alfredo began to speak, suggesting they dart across the alley one by one. Before he could finish speaking, Ryan crouched and hurried across the alley. His foot hit a stray can and created a dull rattle.

It did not disturb the hoard. Alfredo shook his head and mumbled something.

Before Mark could speak, Alfredo had done the same as Ryan, careful of his footing. Alfredo checked the stability of the hoard, then motioned for Mark to come.

To be safe, Mark lifted Chica in his arms. She gave a small whine, but a reassuring scratch had her silenced. He tried to make himself as small as possible with a lab in his arms, and then followed the same routine.

They were in the clear.

“Alright,” Alfredo began. “The gas station is just up ahead. If I remember right, there should be a back door out of sight of the open street.”

“Let’s get going,” Ryan ushered, impatient. Alfredo sighed, annoyed, but they continued on.

Soon enough, they came upon the gas station. A fence had been constructed to further conceal the backdoor from view. It was clearly made with the intentions to keep out of sight of the outbreak’s monsters. Boards were bound tightly together, and barbed wire topped it. It only went about to Mark’s waist, but they were able to crouch behind it.

Alfredo gave the wall a suspicious look. He seemed ready to say something, but the moaning on the other side of the wall kept him silent.

Chica obediently followed them through all this. She didn’t even growl at the creatures. Mark silently praised her, his good puppy already knowing how to stay out of sight.

They soon arrived at the back door. Ryan reached up and jiggled the knob - it did not turn.

Ryan cursed under his breath as Alfredo shoved his way to the door. He tried the knob, with the same results.

“This wasn’t locked when I was here,” Alfredo said. He looked around. “Something’s not right.”

“We can force it open,” Ryan said. “The noise will draw the zombies, but the wall should hold them off. We can barricade the door once we get in.”

Without seeking approval, Ryan stood and began to kick at the door. Alfredo swore and stood up, drawing his weapon. Mark did the same, and Chica anxiously barked.

The creatures shambled closer, and Mark spotted the calcified monster from earlier. It took notice of them, and joined the oncoming crowd. It moved slower than the rest, thankfully.

One creature reached the low fence before any of them, and bent over the wire, not seeming to notice the barbs digging deep in its tough purple skin, or the blisters that were punctured and oozed red slime.

After three kicks, the door swung open. Ryan rushed inside, Alfredo, Mark, and Chica directly behind.

Ryan slammed the door shut and instantly went to a nearby desk. He shoved it with surprising ease and pressed it against the door.

Appearing proud of his work, Ryan smiled at the other two.

“What. The fuck?!” Alfredo burst.

Ryan’s smile fell. “What?”

“Do you realize what you’ve just put us into?” Alfredo asked. He gestured around him. “As far as I know, the only other exit out of here is the front door - in the  _middle_ of all those fucking zombies!”

Ryan thought for a moment. Alfredo threw his hands up.

“Unbelievable,” Alfredo said, exasperated. “I  _knew_ teaming up with you was a bad idea.”

Ryan scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You never listen to me!” Alfredo argued. “You go ahead and act before I’m finished talking!”

“I do what you say!”

“ _Yeah_ , but you just  _act_. You never think! You didn’t even consider how bashing down the door could be a bad idea!”

Mark stood awkwardly a few feet away, feeling strange nostalgia, like he was at a friend’s house and their parents started arguing.

While they battled, Mark took notice of the rest of the room. They were in an employee section of the station. The desk had been left there since before the outbreak, and initially, it seemed like the station hadn’t been touched. There was a couch, a recliner, a TV with no power, counters, and a fridge, along with the desk. But as Mark examined the room, he noticed some odd details.

One, was the first aid kit set on the counter. It had been left open, like someone used it recently. Another was the distinct lack of rotten food that could’ve been left in the fridge. And finally, the lock that was broken from the door.

It was a bolt lock, now sitting on the floor after having been torn off the door, and it had not been placed there long. Alfredo had said that it was unlocked last time he was here.

Someone either just left, or is still residing here.

The argument continued:

“You can  _talk_ while we’re  _doing!_ ” Ryan yelled. They were chest to chest, and if there was a slight height difference, the anger in their eyes matched. Mark suddenly worried about this fight getting physical.

“Who has been  _carrying you_ through this goddamn raid, Ryan?!” Alfredo yelled. “Who?! It’s been  _me!_ ”

Chica let out a low growl, drawing their attention. Mark found her staring at the non-barricaded door, which he guessed led out to the rest of the station.

Mark lifted a finger to his lips, signaling to the other two. Then he crept slowly up to Chica and scratched her neck until she relaxed. Her hackles remained raised, but her growling ceased.

Ryan stepped closer to the door, ignoring the glare Alfredo sent him. He approached the door and pressed his ear against it.

Mark strained to hear over the incessant moaning from the barricaded door. But soon a sound rose loud enough for all three to hear.

Heavy, careful steps came from outside the room. It became startlingly clear that it was another person; its steps were steady, calculated, and not at all like the shamble of the creatures outside.

The steps came to a stop somewhere past the door. Ryan lifted his own weapon from his back; a basic hunting rifle. He held it carefully in one hand as his other hand gripped the knob and turned.

“Ryan,” Alfredo whispered a warning. Ryan ignored him.

Mark crouched down and held onto Chica’s collar, keeping her close as her shackles stood straight, and tried to hush her as a growl once again began to rise in her throat.

Alfredo crept closer to Ryan, holding a hand out as if to stop him. As Ryan cracked the door open further, Mark noticed something odd.

A string was attached to the door handle on the other side of the door. Ryan did not notice, but Alfredo did.

“Ryan, wait!” Alfredo warned again.

Ryan swung the door open, holding his weapon straight and aiming. The string pulled what was on the other end, and Alfredo could see it coming before the rest of them. An explosive shot rang, and at the last second, Alfredo shoved Ryan out of the way as the bullet collided with his side.

Alfredo crumpled, hitting one of the counters lining the wall. He dropped to the ground, blood already staining the front of his shirt.

Chica whined and pushed closer to Mark, startled at the noise. Ryan stood agape, looking between the door and Alfredo.

“Oh god,” Ryan said. “Oh god.” He rushed to Alfredo’s side.

Mark stepped closer to peer out the doorway, holding Chica in tow. He got close enough to see a contraption that Mark likened to a Rube Goldberg machine.

A variations of strings and pulleys connected the door to a double-barrel shotgun. As an unsuspecting visitor ambushed the home, the security system would disable them until the owner came back.

Ryan pressed against the bleeding wound on Alfredo’s stomach, spitting a steady stream of apologies, admitting that you were right, I should’ve listened to you. Mark, breaking out of his shock, spotted the first aid kit on the counter.

Mark darted up, Chica close at his heels, and grabbed the kit. As he picked up the case, however, Mark saw another contraption underneath it, built into the counter it was set upon. This one had a simple pressure plate, and when the kit was lifted, the plate triggered a loud, blaring horn to sound.

Mark swore, but ran back to Ryan and Alfredo nonetheless. Ryan hastily took the kit and grabbed supplies to aid Alfredo. The bleeding man had gone white, and while no noise escaped him, he seemed in shock. Mark wasn’t even sure if he felt pain.

The desk in front of the other door jumped suddenly, and Mark put a hand on the gun attached to his waist. The hoard was directly outside, and with the way they were pushing the door now, the noise attracting them, they would be able to break down that door in no time.

Chica suddenly barked and took off through the open door. Mark called after her, and without hesitating, darted after her.

Ryan had called something after him, but Mark was too preoccupied. He stepped across the threshold and came face-to-face with the shotgun. He stopped a moment, hesitating, before sidestepping the contraption, taking care not to trigger it.

The room was a practically empty convenience store. It was cleaned out completely; the gas canisters they came here for were gone, any food on the shelves were taken.

Mark noticed the glass front doors of the store, and saw the rest of the hoard trying to get through. The glass was not boarded off, or barricaded in anyway. It would only be a matter of minutes before the hoard would get in.

What was this place if the gun and the horn was not a security system?

The answer hit him like a sickening punch to the gut.

It was a death trap. The owner of this place aimed to kill them. If not for protecting something, then for their own sick pleasure.

He found Chica barking at a wall. He rushed over to her and found a hole bored through the wall. It was partially hidden by a shelf, and whoever was here earlier must have escaped through it.

Before he could call Chica’s name, she nosed her way past the shelf and darted outside.

“Chica!” Mark called, landing on his hands and knees. He shoved the shelf out of the way and crawled through.

The crevice lead back outside, past the fence and into a wooded area. Mark spotted a flash of golden fur bolting through the brush. He swore and ran after her.

Chica was hot on the guy’s trail, whoever it was that set up those contraptions. Mark sprinted after her, trying to keep her in his line of sight, panic beginning to boil, his breath heaving and ripping up his throat. A bramble tangled his leg, he nearly tripped; he grabbed a branch to steady himself, shook his leg free, and continued running.

Chica was out of his sight now. He called her name.

Then something happened too fast for him to comprehend.

He felt something grip on his ankle, and he couldn’t shake it free this time; he fell face-first into the moor, snorkeling the soft mud, breathing in the scent of dew on grass. He began to move; then the pain registered.

An unbearable, deep, white-hot pain dug into his leg. He let out a scream; he couldn’t help it. He tried to move to get a look, but moving seemed to dig whatever it was in deeper.

Mark eventually twisted his head around.

His foot was caught in a metal, rusty bear trap. The stains on it suggested he wasn’t the first to be captured. He had disrupted the bare disguise it had once wore; dead leaves shifted off the trap to reveal a metal chain attached to the bottom of it, which looped around a nearby tree. Even if the trap rendered his one leg immobile, the owner of this trap made especially sure no one could drag themselves away.

Mark tugged weakly; a slight disruption of the leg lead to inexorable fire running up his veins and through his arteries. It attacked his lungs and made breathing difficult; he was immobile. Tears were fresh down his cheeks.

“Chica,” Mark called softly, unable to raise his voice.

He knew his ankle was broken. It bent awkwardly in the trap, unnatural, and not in the harmless way he can twist his feet. Blood stained too much to see, but he knew it was.

How likely would he be able to survive with a broken leg? With no hospitals, no medical staff trained for this? Even if he would survive, he might never be able to use that leg again.

He remembered his deafness in his one ear, and decided he had been through this before. And he’s not dead yet.

“Ryan?” Mark called. “Jack? Anyone?”

He heard a yelp off in the distance, and Mark’s panic rose again. That was a dog’s whine, and he’s heard it before when he’s accidentally stepped on Chica’s paw.

“Chica!” Mark called again.

He didn’t hear anything else, and fear rose up his throat; then a swatch of golden fur appeared through the brush. A moment later, Chica was approaching him, limping on her back leg.

“Oh, Chica girl, come here,” Mark cooed, reaching a hand out to coax her closer.

Something was wrong. Chica began to sway, and her steps slowed. She fell on her front legs, attempted to crawl closer to Mark, before collapsing entirely. Mark spotted a dart embedded in her thigh.

She fell barely out of reach. Her snout was close enough for Mark to scratch, and he did so, comforting her as her eyes closed.

For a second, he was struck with the idea that she’d been poisoned; but then he noticed her chest rose and fell, slowly, and he relaxed, coming to the conclusion of a tranquilizer.

But who would tranquilize her? Why?

Incoming footsteps made him attempt to protectively grab Chica. He went to reach for the glock given to him, but found it gone. He swore, then looked around, and when his search was futile, he accepted that he dropped it somewhere on the chase.

Ignoring his definitely broken leg, and gripping tightly onto Chica, he tried to appear with a menacing scowl. The offender came closer; a figure stalked through the brush.

They weren’t that tall, but were oddly well-dressed. Pristine bright yellow dress pants, with a yellow button-up and attached pink suspenders, the man had black hair, much like Mark’s own, except it was ratted and messy, with clumps of god knows what tangled in the curls. Gold-rimmed sunglasses perched on the man’s face, and Mark wondered if the pink mustache he had was dyed or completely fake.

He took one look at Mark sprawled on the ground and guffawed.

“Oooh look at this,” He drawled, dripping an accent that Mark couldn’t place. “Did you enjoy my little game?”

Ice shot down Mark’s spine at the way he spoke. It sounded painfully artificial, but playful and amused, like a clown became a show host. Mark did not like it.

“What….” Mark began. He tried to sit up; the movement tugged the trap and he grunted, biting back a cry.

“Your friends are most likely going to die,” He continued. “I suppose it was clear by the one who got shot. The first aid kit I provided wouldn’t have enough to save him. The door is not going to hold, either - the blonde hunk and his friend will become part of the hoard.”

Mark swallowed, simultaneously sick at the thought of his newfound companions dying, and horrifically relieved that he had gotten out of that situation. He hated himself for feeling the latter.

“The other two -” The man continued, and Mark stiffened. “Yes, I saw all of you try to sneak in earlier - they’re gonna be met with some more of my little friends. Probably won’t live, either.”

Mark felt tears prick his eyes. His newest group - the one he finally felt he  _fit_ \- were already torn from him. Already suffered a heavy loss. The other half of their group is going to wonder where they went, and oh god, if they go searching--

“Anyway,” The man went on. “Dark is upon us. You have fun out here. The Hunters are nocturnal - meaning, they can sniff you out better once night hits. You don’t even have to attract them with noise.” He suddenly approached.

Mark flinched, gripping Chica the best he could. The man knelt beside Chica and began to try to lift her.

“What are you doing?!” Mark asked, his voice reaching a desperate pitch.

“Oh, relax,” The man said, smacking Mark’s hands from digging into Chica’s fur. “You can’t think I’m  _that_ much of a monster to let a dog die out here, too?”

“Where are you taking her?” Mark demanded. He tried to pull himself after the man as he stood up; the trap tugged deeper into his ankle, and the pain made tears fall from Mark’s eyes.

“I’m taking her with me,” The man said. “Dogs are a wonderful barter item. I’m sure someone would love to trade her.”

“ _No!_ ” Mark yelled, clawing at the ground. “No! Don’t take her from me!”

“Keep yelling like that,” The man said. “The Hunters will find you faster.” He turned to stalk away.

“Wait!” Mark called, wracking his brain for any reason to stall as he tried to figure something out. His free foot stomped on the chain, hoping it’ll possibly break the connection.

The man briefly stopped, waiting. Mark searched for something to say.

“Who are you?” Mark finally asked.

The man laughed quietly, stroking Chica’s still head as she lay unconscious in his arms. “Call me Wilford Warfstache,” He said. “Mark.”

Before Mark could say another word, the man, Wilford, stalked away into the brush, gone from view in seconds.

Mark called for Chica; for Wilford; for Jack; for anyone. He tugged at the trap for what felt like hours; he felt the metal teeth dig into his skin and muscle, felt his broken bone further bend out of shape. His blood soaked into the mud, climbed up his leg and soaked his trousers.

The sun had set beyond the trees. Mark could see a faint realm of lilac and flames through the brush. His throat ached from yelling. He was in too much pain to move. His head swam and he felt weak. His eyes closed.

 

He dreamt of a forest on fire. He was running; chased by something. It cackled. He saw a flash of blonde fur ahead of him. The greenery erupted into flames around him. He had to keep going.

He pushed past trees and bushes; then his foot missed. Land ended, and he found himself plunged into water. He struggled to swim up, but found he had no idea which way was up. It was dark; he couldn’t swim; couldn’t  _breathe--_

 

Mark choked as he woke up. He had inhaled mud on the soggy ground. Rain pelted him from above. It had already soaked him.

It was dark. The moon had risen just past the trees, enough to give him light. Mark groaned, his body feeling sore.

He hissed as he moved, remembering his trapped foot. The pain fully woke him. He twisted on his back and sat up, attempting to inspect the trap.

The sight made him physically recoil. His breathing picked up; Mark stared at the moon until he could calm himself down.

His foot was mangled. The metal jaws were encrusted with his blood. His foot was bruised a deep purple surrounding the areas punctured by the teeth. A bone protruded from his ankle, raised towards the sky in a yellow, bloody salute. His foot was swollen to the size of a football.

Mark swallowed heavily. He realized his hands were shaking. He didn’t think just looking at his foot would make him so horrified.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to steady his breathing. He pictured Chica, and thought to get free for her, if not anyone else. Once he calmed himself enough, he opened his eyes.

Movement out of the corner of his eye caught him. He snapped his head to the side. His stomach dropped.

One of those creatures were steadily approaching him. For once he felt himself being the center of attention to those blurry, red eyes. This one was armored with tough, calcified skin. A loud, ghastly moan erupted from its mouth.

Mark wondered how the creature got so close without him noticing, then remembered that he was nearly deaf on that side. He had to act fast.

Mark threw caution to the wind and reached for the trap. He gripped the metal jaws and used what strength he had left to forcefully pry open the trap. His eyes darted to the creature - the Hunter - that steadily approached him with a slow gate.

His hands shook with sweat at the force - he slipped.

The trap snapped shut once again on his foot, causing an involuntary cry of pain to erupt from Mark’s throat. He gasped, shuttered, sucked in a rough breath, and tried again.

His palm caught a tooth, but this time he had it. He snapped the jaws in place, and his foot was free.

The Hunter was upon him. Mark struggled to stand, and narrowly dodged being grabbed by the creature’s sticky hands. Mark nearly fell once he was on his feet, mistakenly putting too much weight on his broken ankle. He recovered, and limp-ran away.

The woods were dark, almost too dark to navigate. The moon was gone, hidden behind the storm clouds, and Mark was left to use the occasional lightning to discover a safe path.

He often saw something move in the dark, or heard a breathy moan. He simply ducked the other way and hoped for the best.

The rain got in his eyes and chilled him. He kept rushing; his foot nearly dragging behind him.

He kept going forward.

#

He had walked a long time.

The rain had ended sometime in the early morning. He had been navigating the woods until the sun rose beyond the treeline. He made it to what looked like an old factory, that appeared to have been sitting abandoned since before the outbreak. It was shelter enough.

After wandering around the building - hours of dragging behind his foot had rendered the pain numbing - he discovered a door with a rusted over padlock, enough to break with a nearby rock.

Mark did little thinking while stalking the halls of this factory. The windows were dusty and pale light shown through them as the sun rose in the sky. Leaks in the ceiling had created mildew which permeated the air. It was quiet, save for old creaks as the building settled to a new inhabitant.

He discovered a shirt tossed on the back of an upper level office chair, out of the sun, and in good enough condition. Mark inspected it, and tugged it. He tore strips until he had a neat pile of makeshift bandages.

After some digging, he discovered an old flask stored in a desk drawer. Smelling the contents, Mark decided he was right in discovering it was alcohol. Strong, too, or perhaps that was from it fermenting in this office for so long.

Mark settled on an office chair beside a window and carefully propped his foot up onto the desk. It left a bloody trail on the dusty wood.

Taking the flask, Mark unscrewed the cap and poured a small amount on the wounds. He gasped at the shock it induced, nearly dropping the flask. Bubbles rose in small pools, and he hoped that the alcohol was good enough to draw out any infections.

After regaining his composure, Mark soaked one of the strips of fabric with the alcohol, and carefully wrapped it around the smaller punctures, avoiding the break for now. He dressed the smaller wounds until he had most of his foot tightly wrapped.

He wasn’t sure what to do about the break. He couldn’t very well snap it back into place; he figured that would cause more damage than its worth. For now, he followed the same routine as the rest of the dressings. Disinfect and simply wrapped.

After that was done, he sat. The office he sat in had that dusty, mildew smell like everything else in the factory. The thin veins of sunlight that poked through the windows were just enough light to see. Plants had started to reclaim this space; vines had snuck through broken windows and holes in the ceiling and floor. Mark spied a yellow flower growing in the tile cracks under a patch of sun.

It was quiet, peaceful. Mark hadn’t thought much about dying - he thought of death, certainly, after what he’s witnessed, but he never truly considered himself dying. Thinking back, he never watched someone die, but just the implication, just the unknowing of whether or not they  _did_ \--it felt like he swallowed stones.

No doubt they were violent deaths as well. Succumbed to infection; shot to death; swallowed by the hoard; murdered by their own species.

Here, now, it was nothing like that. It was far from any Hunter, from any  _human_. He was safe. And it was oh so beautiful.

He could die here. He wouldn’t let himself die in the same fashion as his previous benefactors. Right now, he was in control, and he could die here, peacefully and without consequences. His corpse wouldn’t even be subject to desecration unless some other survivor stumbled upon the factory.

He could die.

Would he?

Suddenly the quiet was suffocating. Mark was hit with the concept that if he died here, he was alone, completely and utterly alone. And  _that_ held him back, kept him from submitting to the fatigue that had plagued him since the early hours.

For the past year Mark has fought to find people. To find a place he belonged, and people he could trust in this new world, and throughout all of it, he had one companion beside him that kept him sane when he lost everything else. Now that was gone, too.

He was alone.

“I can’t die alone here,” Mark said aloud. His own voice startled him - and yet, compared to the stillness that surrounded him, it felt motivating.

He pushed himself to his feet, wincing as his injured limb adjusted. He had lost his shoe on that foot a long time ago, and walking without one could be cause for further damage, but Mark had no choice but to risk it.

As he found the exit to the lone factory, he discovered an odd tool; an old, worn pickaxe, left by a wall half-torn down. Mark picked it up, tested its durability by swinging it against the wall. It held, and he slung it over his shoulder and kept going.

 

The days had dragged on. After the rain it became warm. At noon, Mark felt his ears start peeling from sunburn. His mouth had gone dry. His stomach was painfully empty.

He felt himself growing more fatigued, and he had no idea where he was going. He had lost track of where he was the moment he ran after Chica, and could not find his way back.

He beat a Hunter to death. He can walk about as fast as them now, with his broken foot. He waited for one to grow close - a big one, with bubbling blisters on its back and sunburned skin and acid-dripping mouth - and swung his pickaxe deep into its head. No noise escaped the creature. The axe sunk in with the sound much like a suction, and the thing went limp, its blisters popping. Mark stepped back, managing to avoid any crossfire.

At the second morning since leaving the factory, and the third day since losing everything, Mark fell.

He was in a moor, with thick weeds rapping at his legs and worn jeans, when the fatigue finally hit. It had been nagging at him for a long time, and it took that moment to strike his remaining bit of strength and will to survive.

He tripped on a knotted bit of grass and tumbled, painfully, into the brush. The fall had twisted his already beyond broken ankle, and he didn’t dare move until the pain had passed.

However, when the pain did pass, Mark couldn’t find it in him to stand back up. The ground was damp, yet warm. The sky was cloudy, and a distant bird cawed. Soon he saw one pass overhead.

He thought of what he’s seen. Of Jack, who protected him during the hoard; of Ryan and Alfredo, hating each other until the very end; of Chica, loyally staying by his side and trusting him unconditionally. They haunted him.

The want of sleep pulled at him; something deeper than sleep beneath it. He closed his eyes.

His mind had drifted, but he was not fully asleep; something awaited him to fall deeper, to take him, and yet something just as mysterious and powerful kept him from doing so. As a result, he was awake enough to distantly hear approaching voices.

“H---!  _Hey!_ Get b--- -ere!  _Dog!_ ”

It was moments later Mark woke to something nudging his face; he opened his eyes.

For a moment, he was terrified. A mess of something yellow licked at his face, and he thought he was being eaten. Then recognition caused him to sit up, ignoring the pain the fast movement caused.

“Chica!” Mark cried, his voice cracking from disuse. “Ooh, girl, you came back to me.” He scratched her neck fur as she wagged her tail so hard it shook her body. Mark was hit with so much relief and happiness he cried.

“Whoa, I thought you were dead.”

Mark looked up, startled. A woman stood before him, hands on her hips, backpack over her shoulders, looking him up and down. She had pistol in her hand and a steel bat sticking out of the backpack.

“You  _look_ dead,” She continued, taking him in.

Mark chuckled, coughing. “I thought I was dead.” Chica licked him and he smiled as he buried his face in her fur.

“I’m Amy, by the way,” She said. “That dog’s yours?”

“Mark,” Mark introduced. “And this is Chica. Yes, she’s mine, but she was taken away from me. How did you find her?”

“A guy was bartering her and I figured I couldn’t let the dog get in bad hands,” Amy said. “She ran off when I took her scavenging, thought she found a Hunter.”

“That guy,” Mark said, swallowing. “He did this to me.” He gestured to his foot. “And I believe he killed the people I was with.”

Amy gasped in shock, noticing his injury for the first time. “Oh god! I have to take you back with me, we can get you medical help.”

“Back with you?”

“I’m part of a small community. There’s only about 30 or so of us, but we have a doctor, she can help you. Come on,” Amy said, and knelt beside Mark, assisting him to stand. “You haven’t been infected have you? Being out here so long?”

“No,” Mark said, swinging the pickaxe. “I’ve handled myself.”

“Good.” Amy smiled. Mark found it a lovely addition to her already handsome features.

“Thank you,” Mark said. “I’ve been alone so long...I was ready to die back there.”

“I know the feeling,” Amy said. “It happens too often now. But if you’d like, our leaders might let you stay. We like to take in as many people as we can.”

“I’d like that,” Mark said.

Chica nudged his hand, and Mark happily scratched her head as they slowly, but surely, made their way back to this community.

Mark was wary; after having so much taken from him, he had to be. But he was not in control of the warm feeling in his chest. The more he talked with Amy, the more accepted the feeling. He felt his will now replaced, motivation renewed. He felt happy, hopeful.

He felt like had found his way home.


End file.
